


me, little me

by FandomTrash24601



Series: Only Room to Rise [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoption, BAMFs, Bathing/Washing, Children, Crystals, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Jewelry, Mages, Magic, Mentioned Roach (The Witcher), Orphans, Portals, Protective Witchers (The Witcher), Slave Trade, Slavery, gosh what else is there to tag, marriage as a convenient plot device, maybe just a tiny bit of angst, not legal adoption just claiming an orphan adoption, oh haha, uhhhhh, yikes it's so hard to tag when the MC of the fic is an OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: As much as Astreta loves her parents and is fond of traveling, she misses Coën dearly. Could he have come with them? Yes, absolutely. Would it scare her extended family half to death if Astreta were to show up to Dillie’s wedding with a Witcher on her arm? Also yes.Title from The Amazing Devil's "Farewell Wanderlust"
Relationships: Coën (The Witcher)/Original Character(s), Coën (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Only Room to Rise [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806898
Comments: 33
Kudos: 220





	me, little me

As much as Astreta loves her parents and is fond of traveling, she misses Coën dearly. Could he have come with them? Yes, absolutely. Would it scare her extended family half to death if Astreta were to show up to Dillie’s wedding with a Witcher on her arm? Also yes. So she fiddles with the crystal necklace Coën had gifted her before she left and imagines how nice it will be to return home to Kaer Morhen and her beloved’s arms.

They’ve made it to Redania at last, but there’s still a ways to go before they reach Lettenhove, and it’s a little farther to the village where Dillie and her family live. Astreta’s content to ride Coën’s beloved steed Nightstriker, whose name she’d given significant flack to him about. All he’d done is shrug and smile, so terribly endearing that she’d been helpless to do anything but kiss him.

“It’s a shame that Julian didn’t come with us,” mama comments. She’s plodding forward on another rented horse, an old chestnut mare named Roach that Geralt had offered her with peculiar shyness.

“Yeah, but takin’ the Wolf’s soulmates from Kaer Morhen would require a whole host o’ Witchers.” Papa shakes his head. He’s sat atop their gelding, Whey. “It would be too much trouble, especially when it’s Dillie’s event.”

“We couldn’t even bring Coën,” Astreta says. “Julian would need at least five Witchers on him, maybe even ten in a territory so new.”

“That boy of yours needs to come and visit us more often. What does he do up there that takes so much time? Even Geralt makes it down every once in a while.”

“He’s frequently with Ciri, and he’s a trainer for the Griffin school too.” Astreta shakes her head, smiling fondly. How she loves her noble, dedicated Witcher. “As odd as it seems, Coen has less free time than Geralt.”

“I thought Eskel did the paperwork,” mama says. “What takes up so much of Geralt’s time?”

Astreta laughs. “Training. Raising Ciri. Looking imposing.”

“Looking imposing,” papa scoffs, although he’s obviously smiling.

“You’re going to pretend that he doesn’t do it better than anyone else you’ve ever met?”

Mama shakes her head, chuckling. “It’s odd, thinking back on our first meeting.”

“With Julian tucked away behind him.”

“With our Julian behind him,” mama agrees fondly. “Geralt was so frightening! And now I know he’s just a sweetheart.”

“What did you two think of Coën when you first saw him?” Astreta asks.

Papa hums. “Well, I only really paid attention to him once you two got all mushy. It’s hard to be afraid of a man who looks at your daughter like she’s the prettiest thing in the world.”

“I noticed he was awfully sweet with Ciri, even if he was a bit scary, so I couldn’t be too afraid when we realized who he really is.”

Astreta thinks of an evening from around a month ago, a quiet evening that her and Coën had spent curled up together. He’d been bare-chested, and she’d been dragging her fingertips across his scars when he’d hesitantly broken the stillness.

“Can I tell you something embarrassing?” he’d asked.

“Of course you can,” she said, pressing a kiss to a particularly grisly patch of scar tissue.

“When we first--” He’d stopped and run a hand over his face. “Oh, gosh.”

“What is it?” Astreta had asked through giggles, thoroughly invested in learning this secret. His uncharacteristic shyness is endearing. “You can tell me.”

If Witchers could blush, she knew he’d have been bright red. “When we first met,” he’d mumbled, “I was scared of your parents.”

She’d broken into peals of laughter so intense she’d almost rolled off the bed before Coën could grab her. Him, scared of her parents? The mild-mannered bakers who were so intensely affectionate that they’d looked at the most feared man on the continent and decided to adopt him? What about them could possibly frighten a monster hunter?

“You promised not to laugh,” he’d said, definitely not whining.

“I did no such thing,” she protests. “Dear, what about them could possibly frighten you?”

He’d waited until she had calmed down to answer her, peering into her eyes with his own cat-slitted ones. “Because,” he’d said, making sure that she was listening, “they’re  _ your  _ parents.”

And at that her teasing mirth had faded to an ache of love so sweet that she’d felt tears rise to prickle the back of her eyes. His face had lost its tension when she’d reached up to stroke along the side of it, and he’d even started to purr very quietly. She loved when he did that, and was very fond of pressing her head against his chest while it rumbled. He indulged her even though he didn’t quite understand.

In the present moment, Astreta opens her mouth and says, “He was afraid of you when he first met you.”

“What?” Mama turns around so fast she almost falls off of her horse; papa reaches out to stabilize her. Astreta could almost laugh at the confused and saddened expression on her face. “What’s scary about us?”

“The fact that you two are my parents,” she says. She’s incapable of keeping the fondness out of her voice. “You were the only potential barrier between us. Who would want both of their children to have Witchers for soulmates, after all?”

“We would,” papa asserts stubbornly. “Gods know they’re more chivalrous than the average human.”

“Well,” Astreta says. “As far as the average Redanian goes, you two are unique in that view. It’s a reasonable fear for him to have.”

“He knows better now, at least?” mama asks.

“Of course he does. He wouldn’t call you two ma and pa if he didn’t.”

From ahead, there’s the sound of a lot of people moving. Astreta urges her horse to the front, hoping that it’s an expedition of Witchers. It’s well within the realm of possibility; they’re still well inside Geralt’s lands, and expeditions are always returning.

The moment that the group rounds the bend, Astreta feels her stomach tighten and grow cold. It’s too late for her to fall back and hope to hide behind her parents, because the man leading the slave caravan has already seen her. And now that they’ve seen him--and his illegal product--he can’t very well let them go.

“Good afternoon,” the man calls.

Astreta tucks her small Griffin medallion into the front of her dress with shaking hands, praying that it’ll stay hidden. If they discover that she has anything to do with the Witchers, she’ll be in a greater world of trouble than she’s already found herself in. The small crystal necklace, too, she tucks away. She prays she won’t have to use it.

“Good afternoon,” papa calls back.

Astreta very carefully doesn’t look at the slaves, a whole long line of them all chained together. They’re probably starved and filthy, but she can’t know without looking.

“Where might you travelers be headed?”

“My niece is getting married,” papa says. She notices that he’s not looking at the slaves either. Good.

“That’s nice,” the slaver says.

Several other of the slaver’s men, all on horseback, spread slowly to the side to cage them in. Astreta breathes deeply to try and calm herself--Nightstriker may be a Witcher’s horse, but that doesn't mean he’s unable to be spooked. Even still there are beads of nervous sweat running down her back.

“Where are you coming from?” the slaver asks.

“Northern Kaedwen,” her father answers vaguely.

“Hmm.” The slaver stares at them for a moment longer and then clicks his tongue.

They are immediately surrounded by swords. Astreta closes her eyes, biting back a whimper. It’ll do her no favors to cry, although… If this gets her killed, Coën is going to be furious, but there’s a plan formulating in her mind and she’s the sister-in-law of the most powerful man in the world. She’s not nearly as helpless as she might look.

“Off the horses,” someone orders.

The three of them climb down obediently, although Nightstriker and Roach and very obviously disgruntled. Astreta slides to the back of their little group, clutching to her father’s shoulders like she’s scared. She is scared, of course, but papa’s broad shoulders allow her a temporary shield. Her eyes drift to the left side of the path. There are trees there, and it wouldn’t be hard for her to shatter the crystal necklace against one, but she has to get to it.

Some of the men have dismounted and are trying to lead their recalcitrant horses away. Others are descending upon her huddled family, closing the gap. If she’s going to do this, she has to do it  _ now _ .

Her heart is pounding in her chest and her palms are slick as she pulls the crystal necklace over her head and turns tail, sprinting towards the trees. There’s shouting behind her, orders for her to stop. Mama and papa shout for her, and the sound hurts but all she has to do is make it to the trees and they’ll be fine. She reaches out, swings with all her might--

And is tackled by one of the slavers.

They haul her arms behind her back and shackle them even as she wiggles and spits profanities, and then drag her none too gently to her feet. Mama’s crying. Papa’s chest is heaving as he struggles against the three men it’s taking to get him shackled. The three of them are very quickly dragged to the line of slaves--filthier, hungrier, and with more shadowed eyes than she’d thought--and added to the pitiful procession. Astreta is at the very back of the line, with mama before her and then papa.

“Bitch,” one of the men spits once she’s tied up, and slaps her across the face. “Where did you think you were running to?”

The slap stings, but she remains stubbornly silent and he strides away after spitting in her face. She glares at the men who string their horses together like mules, as if two of them aren’t Witcher-grade steeds, but otherwise remains quiet. If she opens her mouth, there’s a good chance that she’ll laugh herself sick.

There’s only half of a crystal dangling from the end of the necklace chain she clutches.

They march for the rest of the day without a break. In riding boots rather than walking boots, Astreta’s feet are in agony by the time they make camp, but she bites her tongue. She’ll be soaking her feet in the hot springs before long. It helps to abate the fear she feels when the slavers look her up and down with grimy eyes, and allows her to temper her anger when they’re only offered meager rations of stale bread after a day of walking.

“Why would you do that?” mama hisses when the guards meant to keep them silent aren’t paying attention.

“Relax, mama,” Astreta murmurs. “It’s fine.”

“It is not  _ fine,”  _ mama says through gritted teeth.

“Oi!” one of the guards barks. “Shut up!”

The slavers themselves are sitting around a nice fire, some of them bothering to dig through the saddlebags of their newly-‘acquired’ horses. She grits her teeth as they root so carelessly through her belongings, but sits silently in anticipation.

Their freedom comes with dramatic flair.

Eskel’s soulmate--Markus, she thinks his name is--steps into the firelight with a sword resting casually against his shoulder and a smile on his lips.

“Good evening!” he greets the slavers overenthusiastically. “You wouldn’t happen to be slaving within the lands of the White Wolf, would you? Slavery is expressly prohibited here, you see.” He smiles with teeth. It’s not friendly. “We don’t take kindly to those who break that rule.”

The slavers leap to their feet and grab their own swords. One of them spits on the ground before Markus’ feet and snaps, “What’re you going to do against all of us?”

“Oh.” Markus’ eyes are too guileless. “Well, I’m not alone, is the thing.”

That’s when ten other Witchers melt from the woods around the clearing. Astreta can see Lambert, Stefan, Aiden, Serrit, and Gweld among them, and fights back the laughter bubbling up in her chest. She’s still a little worried that she can’t see Coën, though.

“What was that about me being too cautious?” Coën murmurs, appearing beside her with a relieved smile. He kneels down and releases her from her shackles before pressing the key into her hands. She swoops in to kiss him before he can stand up again.

“Yes, yes, you were right. How does it feel?”

“Fabulous.”

Coën draws his own sword and steps forward with the rest of the Witchers to surround the slavers. Astreta frees mama from her shackles with a wink, and then papa, moving down the line until all of the slaves have been freed. It’s difficult to do in the dark, the firelight continually cut off by people passing in front of it, and the noises of a brief battle are distracting too.

Once the slaves are all freed--some of them young children who shrink away from even her hands--Markus swoops in to take the chain and shackles from her. He offers her a companionable wink, and she smiles back.

“Good to see you’re safe.”

“Good to be safe.”

It’s a matter of seconds before the slavers are forced into their own shackles at swordpoint. They’re a little roughed up, but none of them are dead. She’s not sure whether or not she’s disappointed.

Coën rushes her as soon as the slavers have been properly taken care of, scooping her up into a rib-crushing hug and then setting her down just to kiss her breathless. His hands are shaking against the sides of her face.

“Love,” she murmurs, covering his hands in her own. “Love, I’m alright.”

Mama and papa must stray too close, because they’re pulled into an embrace too. Astreta finds herself a little breathless, pinched between Coën and her parents. Not that she’s complaining.

“Ma, pa, you’re alright?” Coën asks.

“We’re fine,” papa says.

“How--?” mama asks, bewildered.

“Astreta’s necklace had a crystal,” Coën explains. “If it gets broken, it sends out a distress beacon of sorts. We followed your scents from the place where the crystal was broken.”

“Oh, smart girl,” papa gushes, pressing a hard kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m glad you’re all okay,” Coën sighs. “I--I was worried.”

“I hate to break up the party,” Markus says, “but we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m portaling everyone to Wolvenberg, where they’ll stay until we figure out what to do with them,” Yennefer says. Astreta jumps; she hadn’t realized that Yennefer was here.

“Ah, there’s our Yenna,” mama croons, pulling away from their little cluster to embrace her. “You’ve done a fine job, dear.”

Yennefer hugs back. “I’m just doing my job. Now--” She steps away and pulls a portal from thin air. The other side reveals a field just on the outskirts of Wolvenberg, probably so that they don’t frighten the town’s inhabitants half to death. Astreta takes in the view of the mountains she’s come to see as home with a happy sigh.

“Alright,” Eskel orders. “Everyone through.”

Markus and Stefan watch the line of slavers, one on each end. Coën keeps a watchful eye on Astreta and her parents, her hand clasped firmly in his non-sword bearing one. It’s sweet of him.

The walk to Wolvenberg is odd, as far as walks go. The slaves are skittish and clump together, shrinking away from the slavers even though the slavers are the ones in chains. It hurts her to see. At least it won’t be long before the slavers are locked up in Wolvenberg’s prison and the slaves realize that they’re truly safe in the Wolf’s lands, especially directly under his nose. The children, at least, will grow up safe.

“I assume we’ll be portaling to the wedding, then,” papa muses as they walk. “Oh well.”

“At least we’ll be there,” mama counters, “and not in chains.”

“Fucking bitch,” one of the bolder slavers dares to spit, baring his teeth at her.

Coën nearly leaps at the man, growling low in his throat, but Astreta tugs him back with just her hand in his. It’s almost amusing that the slaver still has the gall to pretend at bravery when he’s white-faced and trembling in the face of a furious Witcher.

“Don’t,” she tells Coën calmly. “He’s just angry with himself. It takes a lot of stupidity to try to take slaves within the Wolf’s lands.”

The man’s face bleeds from white to red, and he sputters incoherently in fury but doesn’t dare to speak again. Coën won’t hold back a second time.

Half of the Witchers break off when they reach Wolvenberg, loudly parading the slavers through the streets and reveling in the way that their citizens mock the fools. Astreta watches them go with a malicious pride burning in her chest;  _ she  _ did that. She broke the crystal of her necklace and busted their trade.

The other half of the Witchers lead the freed slaves through the streets to the town’s largest inn, trying to guide them without boxing them in and frightening them. Still, some of them walk like their chains were never lifted. One such person is a child, hardly older than four with skin made a thick brown by road dust. They stumble alongside no adult.

Regardless of whether or not they actually have room, the innkeeper trips over himself to find suitable accommodation. Some of the slaves have already made the decision to leave Wolvenberg the next day, but others had looked around the streets with wonder and will likely stay. The child, standing behind the crowd, is forgotten when the innkeeper takes heads to try and figure out rooming. Their small eyes are a piercing green.

“Child,” Astreta says, crouching down. They look over but do no more than blink at her. Their small hands twist in the front of their tunic, a dirty thing barely holding together. She thinks they’re a girl, since the rags they’re wearing look rather like a dress, but can’t be sure. “Do you have anyone here to take care of you?”

They shake their head.

Astreta glances up at Coën, who’s standing back by the inn’s doors with her parents. He looks at her, then to the child, and back at her with a smile tugging at his lips. His eyes are shining in that way that they do when he’s especially fond of her.

“You’d want to?” he asks. “With me?”

“Of course with you,” she says. “Always, with you.”

His face breaks into a real smile, then, and he nods at her.

She looks back to the child. “Would you like to come to Kaer Morhen with me and my partner? We’d be happy to take care of you, and you’d be safe there, I promise.”

The child looks past Astreta to Coën, and she can almost feel him wave. A pink tongue emerges to lick the child’s little lips, and they turn their solemn gaze back to Astreta with an expressionless face. After a long, terrible wait, they nod. Astreta releases a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Excellent,” she sighs. “Excellent. Come here?”

The child steps forward on painfully skinny legs and towards Astreta with no apparent fear. Their hands are still held before them like they’re still burdened by shackles, and the sight makes Astreta’s heart throb so she takes the child’s hands in hers and squeezes with as much force as she dares use on this underfed little thing. They squeeze back so gently that she barely catches it.

“Can you tell me what your name is?” she asks. “It’s okay if you don’t remember.”

“Petra,” the child mumbles.

A girl, then. Astreta’s secretly pleased. Not, of course, that she would’ve been disappointed had the child turned out to be a boy; it’s just that she knows how to handle young girls far better than young boys. At least this child will play to her minimal skill sets.

“Petra,” Astreta repeats warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you. Come and wait with us by the door?”

It doesn’t take too long for all the former slaves to be shuffled off to rooms where they can rest and recuperate. This done, the Witchers have no reason to remain in town, and Astreta watches with her usual awe as Yennefer summons a portal to Kaer Morhen right in the middle of the inn. Most of the Witchers tromp through first, and then mama and papa, and at long last Petra is coaxed gently through.

“Uh,” Eskel says. He’s got an arm around Markus’ waist, the two clearly having just separated from a kiss, and is looking at Petra with pure bafflement. “Where’d the kid come from?”

It’s Coën who speaks. “She didn’t have parents with her, and I don’t much feel like invoking the Law of Surprise at random until I can rightfully steal one. So--” He waves vaguely towards Astreta and Petra. “--orphans it is.”

“You guys want a tub sent to your rooms?”

“That would be excellent, thank you, Eskel,” Astreta says.

“Where is--Oh, there you are!” Jaskier bursts into the room with all his usual fanfare, and rushes her before she can do anything to brace herself. He almost takes her off of her feet with the force of his hug and, in his preoccupation with her safety, almost knocks Petra over too. Coën guides her gently away from Jaskier’s overenthusiasm. “Goodness, Astreta, we didn’t actually expect you to have to use that damned thing. I’m so glad you’re safe. Wait, were you hurt at all?” He pushes her to arm’s length and looks her critically up and down. “You don’t look hurt, but--”

“I’m fine,” she insists, fighting a smile. “Everyone is alright, although we’ll have to take you up on that offer of a portal to the wedding.” She gasps. “Oh, the horses! We left Roach and Nightstriker!”

Jaskier laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. They’re probably being collected right now; Geralt would never abandon Roach.”

“Oh, well, alright then.” She leans in to kiss her brother on the cheek and lets herself smile broadly at him, relieved to be home. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go speak to someone about clothing and then get Petra bathed.”

“Petra?”

“Our newly-acquired daughter.” Astreta nods in Coën’s direction. Petra has let herself be picked up and sits solidly on Coën’s hip, her arms wrapped around his neck and her dark little eyes roaming the room with caution but no fright.

Mama and papa have caught on to current events and are crooning at Petra, hands clasped before them in joy. Petra assesses them with deeply confused eyes.

“A niece!” Jaskier gasps delightedly.

“A niece,” Astreta agrees.

There’s one good thing about her parents’ overentbusiasm, and it’s that Coën and Petra have bonded over how clearly overwhelmed they both are. Petra is actively clinging to Coën rather than passively, and he’s clutching her like he’s prepared to fight mama should she try to take Petra from him. It’s a good trait for a father.

“Goodness,” Jaskier says. “What a wonderful thing.” He smiles and nudges her shoulder. “You’ll do a splendid job; I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you. I can only hope to be half as good as our parents, but I’ll do my very best.”

“And you’ll have all the help you could dream of! Whether it be other servants, other Griffins,  _ Geralt…” _

“From what I’ve heard, I think one child has been more than enough for Geralt. I’m sure he has great advice, though.”

Jaskier laughs. “After Ciri, the little menace that she is? I’m not certain how much of his advice would be applicable to a perfectly normal child, but he’s got plenty.”

Astreta watches Coën readjust his possessive grip on Petra and is helpless to stop her smile. “I think we’ll do just fine.”

The tub is made ready with astonishing speed, and it’s not long at all before Astreta is using a damp rag to wipe the worst of the grime from Petra’s skin. There’s no use in dirtying the entire tub immediately. Petra stays silent and obedient throughout the process, letting Astreta reveal the real color of her pale skin and hair. Astreta’s shocked to discover she’s blonde.

Once in the tub, accepting help from Astreta to climb in in the first place, the heat of the water goes right to her head. She’s slumped against the rim of it and fast asleep by the time Astreta’s done actually cleaning her to the best of her ability. The sight--the trust it had to have taken--makes her heart throb in her chest, constricting even her throat. Is this what it feels like to be a mother?

She ponders, as she does her best to dry Petra’s limp body and get her into a clean nightgown, how vastly her life has changed over only a relatively short while. For a long time she’d been nothing but a Redanian baker with a twin assumed to be dead, but now… She has her brother back. She has a soulmate--and a Witcher, no less--who treasures her. She has all sorts of family in the shape of Witchers and mages, including the most powerful person on the Continent. She has a secure life and job almost fully free of threat. She has a daughter.

Coën knocks gently on the door.

“I’m done,” she says. “Come in.”

He steps through the door and closes it gently behind him, amber eyes softening like candle wax. Petra has unconsciously curled closer to Astreta in her sleep. She’s clean and safe, and when she wakes they’ll make sure she’s well-fed. She will never have to be afraid again.

None of them will, not with the protection of the indomitable White Wolf at all of their backs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been a long time, but I hope you enjoyed this! I've been surprisingly unproductive over these past two months, but at long last I emerge from the quagmire with a product. I'm thinking that this will be the end of this series--it took way more than I'd expected to get this done, I don't want to end up beating a dead horse, and with college starting up again soon I'll be tragically short on time to do anything that isn't homework. Thank you very much to anyone who's come along for the ride!


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